


Friends, as always

by Arithanas



Series: What friends are for? [3]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Anal Sex, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Morning After, Oral Sex, Pre-Book(s), Rimming, sinship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4240083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1621, Paris. Athos and Porthos get along as thick as thieves, whatever the differences between them were. One night, frustration becomes a matter of common interest and a mutual agreement between the two was made. Here is the story of their first night under that pact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The proposal

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Amis, comme toujours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/447584) by [Arithanas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas). 



 That night in early November had been like any other night; they were dismissed by the lieutenant and went to a tavern to escape the cold. Porthos distributed his greetings, shared some rumors and laughed loudly. Athos, in turn, sought the darkest corner and ordered dinner. They ate with good appetite as soldiers do after spending twelve hours in service. The plates and the bottles were stacked on the table and the wenches came to see if they needed anything else and that was an offer Porthos could never refuse.

As usual, Athos raised his glass, wishing him good luck and with, a movement full of majesty, pointed the dishes and empty bottles to the scorned girls. One of the girls came to pick up Porthos’ glass and almost spilled her superb rack in front of the client’s face. The offer was obvious and maddeningly tempting, but Athos would not take it. Instead, his mind did a quick mathematical calculation, two years and eight months, a few days more or less made no difference. The wine has given him permission to forgive himself for growling at the waitress, but in all honesty, maybe the words “udder” and “hussy” were excessive. He might have to leave her some coins to be forgiven.

Athos was pleased to spend another lonely night in the company of a good bottle of Chambertin. His life was not complicated and his desires were simple. At least they were until a year ago, when the Porthos’ company had made impossible for him to escape the wenches, but even taking into account all the qualms that it might raise, Athos would not be forced to leave his friend, because he was one of the few things that still made him feel human. One of the few things she had not taken from him...

Athos raised his glass, ready to fight the wave of anger and self-pity that was rapidly approaching.

When the heat of the wine spread out in his chest and the sweet tingling traveled through his members to his toes, Athos tried to return to the problem. The problem, of course, was not that Ana took him for a fool —he was clearly an idiot—; the problem, honestly, was that he wanted to be with Porthos and that meant bearing the advances of wenches who wanted to make their pittance with the work of their bodies. Nothing is more moral or more decent, if it suits them, nevertheless Athos did not intend reach and take what they offer: Ana loved him and almost killed him; he could be a moron, but he loved to live. It was an irrational idea, he knew it, but there was no way to get rid of it. To follow Porthos’ steps was ruled out.

But, if it was the only problem, he would not be ready to hit the roof, or better yet, to climb the walls, as he was. Athos was simmering over low heat; he realized that the pleasures of the flesh had not lacked him since he was sixteen. The last two years had been too drunk and too absorbed in his misery to care for that, but now he was more aware of what was happening around him and _Sacré-Cœur!_ Athos was not a saint, nor had his parents made him out of stone. On the second of these reasons, he could not help but feeling his appetite whet at all offers threw to his way, and on first, he also felt a desire for all that was not offered.

He needed to get laid, urgently.

The situation would not be so desperate, if he could trust the wenches, or if he could sneak into a brothel where he did not have to worry about spending a night with Venus and a lifetime with Mercury, but these assurances have been made for a noble, for a count, not for an obscure soldier without a name or fortune

“I drink to that!” Athos murmured, lifting the half empty glass, sharing his wishes with a vacant seat and a bottle in the middle of an assembly of strangers.

It would be hilarious if it wasn’t the story of his life...

******

Athos was still half sober when he heard the noise over his head. It was a scandal of shouting women and a man cursing at full voice, and he knew well that deep and loud voice. Unable to believe it, he picked up the bottle and realized he drunk only one third of its contents. Porthos usually got into trouble when Athos was on the third or fourth bottle, that is, when it was time to reward the girl for having supported his weight for more than a quarter of an hour.

The scandal spilled over the common room of the cabaret as a half-dressed Porthos climbed down the stairs amidst a shower of cat-calls. The patrons were not drunk enough to forget he only spend some minutes on the second floor and the girls showed their annoyance calling him out some quite inventive names that they reserved for abusive clients. Athos knew that he must give moral support to his friend, but it was difficult not to smile at the scene.

“To hell with that bunch of fussy wenches!” Porthos exclaimed and took his seat in front of Athos, too busy donning his shirt to notice that smile.

Without comment, Athos refilled his glass and offered his friend the bottle. Porthos paid him no attention, but it had to be expected when his male pride was so badly hurt.

“Let me tell you something, Athos,” he continued to vent his ill humor while fighting to place his doublet sleeves on the right arm. “That wenches are scarcely better than a bunch of pox-ridden whores!”

Athos glanced at the full bottle, glad that he asked for it before the ruckus started. That night they would not have a great service if both engaged into insult the staff. With his usual parsimony, Athos tried to take a sip, but the great hand of Porthos snatched it out of his hand, before emptying in one gulp

“But, anyway...” Athos picked up the open bottle, drinking from a bottle neck or a glass was indifferent to him, “what did she do to put you in that state?”

“She refuses to...”

Porthos seemed embarrassed to say it out aloud and he approached Athos and called, with words out of the gutter, the name of an action that could put him in hot water if there was a priest in the vicinity. Fortunately for him, Athos was the only person who listen them and those ears, accustomed to sailor’s speak, had heard worse ways to call this so amusing game.

His eyes saw his friend in warm understanding, and his hands served him a glass of wine, but his head, attacked by wine and lust, played with the idea of offering Porthos a risky business. Athos tried to discard the idea once he saw Porthos with his head down, it was not honorable to take advantage of a man when he was defeated. Porthos emptied his glass and let out a huge sigh.

“I have tried to for several months,” Porthos leaned on the table, his hand began to play with the empty glass, “I can eat what was on the menu, but the desire is the desire. You know, Athos?”

Yes, Athos knew, and he knew it so well that he had no words to console his friend. So he tilted the bottle and served another glass before taking a big mouthful for himself directly from said bottle.

“Do you know?” Porthos asked and his eyes were fixed on the glass, “Now, I would take any offer to do so: any port in a storm!”

Very fortunately, Athos still had the wine in his mouth; otherwise he would have choked when he heard this sentence. No rush, as he swallowed the liquid, Athos allowed his mind to abound about implications of what was said by his friend. Well, it could be another instance of Porthos’ bravado —not that he was given to challenge in vain— also, there was a suspicion among them, but they never came to materialize it in the words. In any case, Athos knew he had to proceed with extreme caution.

“Do you remember that night in Saint Germain, Porthos?”

Porthos not only remembered, but he had made efforts to forget it. It was January of 1623, and the court still muttering that the king could not be consoled for the loss of his favorite Luynes. M. de Treville had ordered a special commission to Athos and had suggested him to take Porthos along. Both had been with a man who wore a cloak that covered his body from head to foot to the royal stables of Saint-Germain. His orders were simple: to prevent anyone to approach the royal stables and to accompany the person of the mantle wherever he wanted to go. That person was his royal majesty, Louis XIII The chaste, and what he did that night put a lot of this title in doubt.

“Yes,” That was all he said, because he didn’t really talk about it. Both risked too much just for being there.

“If it’s good for the king, it’s good for me.”

“Are you a bugger?” He had done this question several times but always in jest. This time, he was serious.

“No, I’m Athos,” replied his friend, with the cold tone that sometimes froze the blood of his enemies, “and I don’t define myself by what I find enjoyable.”

“Just to be clear,” Porthos really wanted to remove the doubt that gnawed at him since that evening in the Louvre, “you do not find pleasure in women.”

“Women, Porthos, are of the most pleasant thing ever made by the Eternal God,” said Athos, holding the bottle. “Beautiful to look at, delicious to touch, desirable to have, but I’m wary of them. To them, I would not give confidence to serve my wine, much less the most delicate parts of my body.”

“So the only way you can serve these delicate parts is with the guys...”

“I have not had that joy for a long time.” Athos admitted, taking a big swig from the bottle.

“So what have you done?”

“I took the matters in my own hands,” certainly tonight, Athos had decided to give Porthos his confidence. “If I didn’t do more was for the lack of a trusted partner.”

“You ask me to be the trusted partner.” Porthos concluded, and prepared himself to reject him as politely as possible. To have a romp with another man did not bother him, but the idea of acting as a partner was something that was not in his plans.

“No, that would be too burdensome, I offer you to satisfy your appetite, if you do the same for me.”

“ _Holà!_ ” Porthos said taking the bottle. He could not believe the words coming from Athos’ mouth.

“It would be a very amicable agreement, no promises, and no problems of love.”

“Without jealousy?” Asked Porthos, even the wenches were jealous.

“Without more commitment than the pleasure of each other while we are in bed,” Athos confirmed nodding slightly.

“And out of bed?” Porthos wanted to know. The idea was not too far-fetched, but needed to refine some details before he felt inclined to accept.

“Friends, as always.”

******

The feeling of impending doom rose as soon as Athos opened the door of his apartment. There was nothing extraordinary, they are usually went for a nightcap in this place before disbanding, but Porthos knew why they had come and it was not for drinking. Grimaud received them with the same kindness as always, the man was always aware of the needs of his master and his friend and rushed to help them with their mantles while on the table a bottle of wine and two glasses of metal wait for them.

Grimaud served as usual, happy to have visitors at home. Porthos drank two glasses of wine in quick succession: the first as it was served and the second after Athos received his part. He had to give credit to the discreet valet, Grimaud did not show his surprise until his master gave him some orders and even then, he only examined the contents of a drawer, he took his case to repair garments and made a sign to say goodbye in complete silence.

The door is closed and Porthos fancied for a moment he felt as trapped in a dungeon.

“If you are not sure...” Athos tried to maintain certain decorum, while offering an honorable retreat.

“I’m sure,” said Porthos, holding his gaze. The room was hot, but Porthos suspected that this was not the reason he was sweating.

Athos nodded and rose from the table; he opened a cupboard and pulled out a pair of objects, before sitting in his usual place where he put a deck of cards and a small bottle on the table. The contents of the bottle took the reflections of the chimney. It was not a bottle of wine, grease around the rim betrayed its contents. That night the thick liquid would be used for something other than to clean up leather.

“Is there enough work for Grimaud?” Athos asked, taking the cards to shuffle them. Luck would dictate who would be the archangel the first night.

“I have ten shirts in a disastrous state,” Porthos looked at who was just his friend, until that night. “That should be enough.”

“One card,” Athos put the cards on the table with a thud. “No revenge.”

Porthos cut the cards and took one of them; his fingers trembled in the air before placing it on the polished surface of the table: A jack of clubs. It was a good card, not too high, but not so low as to threaten imminently his rear door. However, he did not want to rely on the misfortune of Athos, sometimes he had a good pass.

Athos sipped his wine, while Porthos looked at the card he had by chance, with the coolness that never leaves him even in a fight, and that, in a way, ruined some of the victory, even if the price seems more attractive now that it was almost at hand, the reaction of his opponent does not bode well for collect it. For the first time, Porthos wondered if Athos in bed would be like an uptight spinster. It is always a shame to mount what you thought a stallion and which turns out be less than a nag.

Athos, without haste, emptied his glass and raised a couple of cards with his index finger; his middle finger drew the chosen card. Porthos thought this trick would be quite useful if he decides to cheat at game. Athos’ eyes saw the figure and his face have not changed at all. He always gave the same response to the vagaries of fortune.

“Well, it’s decided!” Athos exclaimed, throwing the card on the table. His fingers closed around the neck of the bottle. “Let’s go the bed!”

Porthos looked as if he did not understand, Athos was moving quickly toward the door that was never open when guest were at home. Through the door, Porthos saw a large four-poster bed with curtains, lit by an oil lamp. Athos stops below the threshold, he looked quizzically at Porthos as if challenging him to withdraw from the covenant he made at the heat a bottle —a move that was attractive in itself, but it was not premeditated. Then with a gesture of indifference, trying to be a gentleman to the end, he disappeared inside the room.

Porthos looked at the card on the table. Over his jack of clubs, there was a two of diamonds.


	2. The action

Athos’ bedroom was almost as hot as the room where the friends used to drink and talk late at night. A couple of braziers in the corners were still burning brightly, one of them rested on a little box on the floor. For a moment, Porthos believed that Athos and his servant were related by thought, but in all certainty he was just witnessing the routines of the house.

Athos was sitting on a coffer at the foot of the bed, busy with his boots, and he did it so naturally that Porthos was convinced that he would be true to his word. The big Picard got to work and took care not to throw the boots in the corner out of fear of bringing down the braziers.

“Here I am,” Athos, throwing the shirt to bed.

“I can see…” Porthos came to him and his cold hands caressed the abdomen that shook a little. How funny! He always suspected that Athos’ skin was soft, but it was an illusion. His was undoubtedly the skin of a man.

Athos used his hands to remove the shirt from his friend’s back and Porthos shivered as the cold caressed him, a gentle smile touched Athos’ lips: It had been a long time since he touched another human skin. His long fingers entered the breeches by the belt and stroked Porthos’ long thighs, enjoying the feel of these powerful muscles while driving him to the bed, before searching, between the legs, the object chosen to satisfy thirst that burns him. He found it has a nice size and enough thickness for the task; his fingers caressed the bag and rolled the balls against the palm of his hand. Certainly, Porthos suited him.

“Porthos, in these situations,” Athos said when he had enough to be touched so gently, “I don’t mind being treated without any finesse...”

“I thought...”

Porthos realized the flaw in his logic: when you’re hungry, you don’t decorate the table. Annoyed by its slowness of thought, he put his arm around Athos’ waist and placed him on his own shoulder to remove those trousers. Athos, surprised by the movement, tried to kick in the air, not because he opposed the treatment, but purely on reflex.

“Don’t move!” Porthos, without pause, discharged his hand on his friend’s defenseless buttocks with a snap of skin against skin.

A moan of surprise and excitement left Athos’ throat.

“Do it again!” Athos exclaimed almost simultaneously, supporting his hands on his friend’s bare back.

“Do you like it hard?” Porthos asked, throwing him on the bed.

“I like a lot of hard things...” Athos said, rolling on the bed and extending his hand towards Porthos. “Come here!”

Athos closed his hand on the throbbing cock, his arm and drew the rest of the body with gentle but determined traction. Porthos resisted just enough to get rid of the pants and stocking. Porthos enjoyed this persistent friction, no sweet caresses or finger plays or extravagant fear reactions about ‘such size’. That hand belonged of someone used to deal with rods, even if only was his own: Firm in the column and softer in the head.

“Oh, fondle it well!” Porthos encouraged, placing his knee in the mattress.

These hard strokes were in very good company with a wet mouth that engulfed the head easily and slowly. The hand left him, while the mouth swallowed hardness, covering the full extent of warm saliva. Porthos let himself be pampered while his ears were caressed by the noise Athos made, as his lips and tongue hungrily attend to his growing erection. To be more comfortable position — he wanted to ensure the game were prolonged a little longer — Porthos leaned to his side, this made them mutually inverted.

Athos followed Porthos’ movement, trying not to let go his prey. He had already forgotten how much he loved the salty and bitter taste of men flesh and now he had in his hands —and in his mouth— a good example: a heavy stick, round and firm that responded to each of his long licks and a pair of balls that rolled nicely between his fingers. Athos was pleased because Porthos refrained from holding his ears and pleasuring himself with an open and passive mouth. If he had to suck, the least thing anyone could do was to let him do it at his own pace.

Porthos shuddered, enjoying the caress. Long ago, he learned that women could not compete with a man in such things. Maybe they were intimidated, after all, they lacked something to compare and invariably were too delicate or too reluctant to make a man lose his strength in the knees. Athos was very good at sucking cock and Porthos enjoyed it as a pasha, with his hand on his friend’s hip. His eyes fell on the little ass while his mind recalled that there was no rush because before bedtime, by a stroke of luck, he could separate them with his cock and dig deep into the tempting flesh. With an indolent gesture, Porthos used his fingers to separate the hills and look at the hole of which he had won the right to use during the night. It was a cute, small hole, clean and wrinkled, a little darker than the fair skin around it and not too hairy. It would be a pleasure to open and to fill...

“Any complaint?” the insolent tone of the question could not hide the pleasure Athos felt at being admired.

So Athos was also slightly vain: a funny detail to know that in these circumstances.

“Another thing I had in mind...” Porthos said, putting his arm between the bed and his friend before lifting Athos from the bed and place him in his chest.

Before Athos could react, Porthos has separated the large muscles in order to have better access to the small eye. There was a strong smell, but not unpleasant, Athos was probably very careful of his person. Without further consideration, Porthos drew his face to it and he let his tongue trace a slow circle around the edge

“What are you doing?”

“I kiss all the cunts before filling them.”

“Let me inform you, Porthos,” Athos said, his tone slightly annoyed, but his voice betrayed his pleasure. “ _That_ is **_not_** a cunt!”

“Ah! No?” Porthos pretended a tone of innocence, trying to resume his task. “It works like a charm for a kiss!”

Athos moaned against his will, Porthos’ tongue playing with his hole caused him a pleasant tickling. The sensation distracted him from the rest of his body and made him pay attention to each lick; that tingling rushed to the back of his balls, and he could swear he felt how each of the hairs covering the bag on end; it was such a novelty to have the goose bumps at that very place. Each new kiss sent a new beat at his dick and it became a clear, new drop in the crown. Athos bowed his head almost ashamed of himself, Theban love has always been a matter of hardness and of resistance; this new pleasure was intense and remarkable.

By the way that his attentions were being received, Porthos was sure Athos had never been treated with refinement; it was a shame, because a rear like his deserves the best possible deal. Porthos had his hands full of firm and compact flesh, soft to the touch and delicious to lick; his tongue crept into the ring causing groans and shivers and, by the way Athos writhed, despite how much he sought to control himself, his ability was highly flattered.

“You will kill me, Porthos...” Athos murmured while bending his back. Fighting against such aggression was a lost battle.

Porthos was asked to do two things and forced to make one. He could call Athos at his exaggeration —the worst that can happen is that he spurt his juice— or he could keep licking since the surprise had passed and the entrance was relaxed and welcoming.

To hell with nice words in good company!

With the attack intensified, Athos felt out of control, his right hand had found Porthos’ cock and rhythmically closed fist on it, without a sufficient concentration to jerk it as the rules demanded. His curly hair caressed Porthos’ sides when the lewd tongue crept in the brim with a slow and agonizing twist; his white teeth dug into his lower lip to control the moans that threatened to leave his throat. In short, Athos had been reduced to a quivering creature at the mercy of his lowest instincts to much his chagrin.

“Athos...” The voice of Porthos barely managed to pull him out of his trance.

“Huh?” The poor response was obtained between gasps.

“I want to stuff my cock in your little hole.”

Porthos had chosen the words carefully and they were effective. Athos dismounted and laid his weight on the bed, flushed from forehead to navel, the words had recalled him his debt, and they had returned the man to the bed, a very enthusiastic and horny man, but also a gentleman interested in delivering what he promised. While Porthos knelt on the bed and enjoyed the image of the mess he had caused, Athos, languidly, stretched out his hand over his head, his fingers sought the bottle placed between the bed and the chest. It didn’t matter how excited Athos was, there was no way he would allow Porthos to screw him without something to facilitate the assault.

Without words, Athos sat on the bed and pulled the cork from the bottle, the amber oil was poured into the hollow of his hand; then he used the viscous liquid to jerk off Porthos’ cock, smiling; Porthos passed his hand through Athos’ tousled hair. Athos, without pause, leaned forward to pass his tongue on Porthos’ chest, using his teeth to stimulate the nipples. Porthos appreciated the caress while taking the oil, savoring every moment before sinking his hardness in that so well disposed body.

“I’ll tear your ass apart,” murmured Porthos while Athos vigorously rubbed the hard shaft he will use to fulfill his promise, “You would not ride for one week, my friend...”

“Please...” Athos said with husky voice next to his ear, “I want to be well stuffed!”

“You are a wretch!” Porthos said with a hearty laugh, those words did not fit Athos, but they sounded fabulous in his serene voice.

“That’s what my father used to say,” Athos replied, before nibbling the earlobe, “but God has given us one hand to give and one to take; I just happen to be ambidextrous.”

The joke amused Porthos who pushed Athos on the bed, laughing all the time. Once he was over Athos, Porthos put his hand between both legs, looking blindly for the hole with his fingertips and Athos’ mouth with his lips. His hands were faster, but his lips were there to catch the groan caused by his finger forcing the passage.

The kiss was a violent act of two men facing each other, not the caress of a lover, but the challenge of a comrade. Athos’ tongue, active and adventurous, took the lead; his left leg was hooked on Porthos’ hip for he was in great need of opening the compass to give wide berth because Porthos’ fingers worked tirelessly to loosen that ring that resisted his attacks; Athos was not kidding when he said he had not had that pleasure for a long time.

“Careful, you big stupid!” Athos protested when Porthos tried to enter again.

“Your ass is tight as a virgin pussy!”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Of course, it’s not!”

They looked angrily at each other. Porthos was afraid for moment that Athos might decide, after all, that he didn’t want to be fucked and the idea of being foiled twice in one night only served to increase his fury. Athos reached between his legs and made a grimace before giving Porthos a glare that usually means that someone will soon be a body on the floor; Athos mumbled something like “no wonder...”, his hand grabbed the bottle and after sinking his fingers into the oil, regardless of the presence of Porthos, he began to caress his own asshole, with a circular motion and slowly, as if he was trying do away with the pain.

That image did wonders for Porthos. No bad mood could make a defense to such an obscene spectacle without being mollified. The light from the lamp on Athos’ nude and sweaty body stressed the flexed and twisted mass of muscles; his hand had achieved what Porthos’ hand had failed. This elegant, curved hand covered most of the view, but hinted that the major had advanced to the second phalanx; the rest of the fingers framed the operation. Porthos was fascinated by the soft friction on the red edge. Athos, with closed eyes, put his free hand on the mattress and threw his head back, groaning his pleasure at the invasion. Porthos was torn between his desire to lay hands on such a shameless man and that of seeing Athos touching himself so hotly; he had never suspected that there was, under the image of apathetic drunkenness, a so arousing man!

“Your hand,” Athos said in a firm voice, seemingly unruffled by the repeated fingering. Porthos approached hesitantly. “Put it over my hand,” that order had been said in the same tone than any other in the courtyard of practice and Porthos obeyed with martial discipline. “Push your finger in!”

Porthos obeyed before he could be afraid of hurting him, but his finger pressed on the ring of muscles and slipped on Athos’ finger before sinking into the warm dampness of his bowels. Athos made a strange sound between a grunt and a sigh, a mix between struggle and pleasure; his free hand was raised from his bed, the long fingers entangled Porthos’ hair of and pull him to his mouth, his other hand was busy opening the gap now shared by another finger. Porthos followed his example, helping him to broaden the passage, and allowing Athos to ravish his mouth as much as Porthos was ravishing his butt.

“A little more oil and you can fill me at your leisure,” said Athos, although his words were difficult to understand because he spoke with Porthos’ lower lip between his teeth.

Porthos understood the invitation and as he regained his lips, stood up to find the bottle, Athos took the opportunity to turn in bed and present his rump supported on four legs. Porthos took the flask that has been placed against the board; his eyes fell on the label.

“Linseed oil...” he muttered, tilting the flask to check the viscosity, “I prefer to use grape seed oil, I think it makes the leather more flex...”

“Do you want to fuck or to discuss the properties of the oil?” Athos, almost beside himself, stopped him, “because I’m only in the mood for one of two!”

Porthos, upset by the tone, look and tried to refute the question, but his eyes fell on the round rump that was waiting for him to decide to put it to good use. This helped him to avoid Athos’ furious glance, which proclaimed from the rooftops that Porthos was not alone in suffering from frustration that night. Meekly, Porthos poured the oil between the buttocks and used his fingers to spread it around that hungry asshole.

“Sorry,” he muttered fondling it in circles, as he had seen Athos doing, “I get distracted easily.”

“I have no words to express how much it flatters me.”

“Bear with me,” Porthos begged, using his finger to ensure the path is open and traversable. “I promise you it is worthwhile. On all fours?”

“I prefer it,” said Athos, putting his elbows on the bed, thinking that in this position Porthos would give less false thrusts.

Porthos nodded, guiding his cock to the hole that seemed too small, despite how much it had been pierced. Thanks to the lamplight, Porthos could place the crown of his cock on the target without a fumble; with reservations, he gave a little push with the hip but only succeeded in slipping over the entrance. They chorused an exclamation of frustration before Porthos made a second try. Telling himself that patience was the key, Porthos considered he just needed to change the strategy; he closed the fingers of his right hand around the shaft and put his thumb on the crown, as he pushed his left thumb in the ring. Porthos found that he really did not want to hurt Athos, but a little force was necessary if he wanted to nail him by the rules.

The next effort managed to open the way for a round head with agonizing slowness, Porthos could sense that the ring’s pressure that was almost painful, but as the widest part broke out the creases and Porthos removed his thumb, he could pay attention to Athos’ strained grunts. The object of his attentions seemed to be having a hard time, all in his stance proclaimed that he struggled to accept the invasion, from his extended neck to his trembling thighs. Porthos, remorseful, tried to stroke his lower back with his free hand

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, a little confused because his partner in this battle was pressing the ring with all his might.

“Yes, but keep going…” Athos said between clenched teeth, with balled fists full of blanket. “Hurts so good…”

“If you do not want to continue...” Porthos insisted, feeling squeeze around his cock for a second time. How strange! After Athos clasped him, the adjustment was much more comfortable.

“Oh, my God! I’m about to...” Athos murmured, squeezing his ass a third time before ordering Porthos, testily: “Stop being a sissy and nail it deep!”

Porthos could not believe his ears: Athos called him a _sissy_! He stood there, trying to find an adequate response to this insult, but time failed him. Athos, with an impatient grunt, pushed back. Porthos observed in disbelief how Athos packed inside a good half of cock with a growl of triumph. This definitely eliminated any ability to respond to the insult as Porthos could only stammer his pleasure when he felt the heat of the damp cavity that fits like a glove to his rod.

“Do you lack the balls, fribble?” Athos challenged him while rocking his hips slightly.

Porthos had no idea of what was that that Athos had called him, but he was offended and his anger rise a little when he realized that this very unabashed man wanted to pursue his pleasure without his assistance.

“Go and be buggered...” Porthos grumbled when he saw Athos raising his chest out of bed.

Athos had crossed the line; there was no other way to put into words. Obviously, he had forgotten who had drawn the highest card and it was time to remind him that fact.

“That’s what I have attempted for half an h-OW!”

Porthos put his hand between Athos’ shoulders, made him bow down and, to avoid any ambiguity, he sunk the rest of his hard cock into him with a mighty push. The devil may care if it hurts!

“Here! Take it all, scoundrel!”

“At last!” Athos panted, he had still presence of mind to reach out and take a pillow. “You took your sweet time!”

“And to think I lost a year trying to make you talk,” Porthos complains when he withdrew his cock from that tight niche. “Silence, Athos!”

The order was unnecessary; Athos had a pillow between his teeth to keep himself from screaming like a stuck pig. The last thing Athos wanted was to inform his landlady about his evening activities and he didn’t know if he could enjoy in silence after serving Porthos such a heavy taunt.

Porthos sank a little more of his cock inside his friend with a grunt of satisfaction: the entry continued to be tight, but his rod was surrounded by the warmth and caressed by soft and supple insides. Athos’s hand was on his thigh was a warning not to go further, a tacit requests was very difficult to satisfy. He returned to work, his both hands kneading Athos’ cute ass, feeling the way they trembled when his cock was inserted or removed with slow movements of the hip.

“Yeah ... right there,” whispered Athos, tilting his head, his voice trembling and weak. “Faster.”

That was all the encouragement required, Porthos followed his advice, his hands caressed the back of Athos; whilst Athos responded immediately to his shoves while doing the incredible trick of press and release his column in rhythm with his hole. Nobody had done this to him before and the sensation was delightful and disturbing.

“Faster.”

The order was said with a subtle sigh, almost reluctantly, as if Athos did not wish to stop receiving caresses so gently; as if, despite his pleasure, he would understand the urgent need of his friend. Porthos, instead of responding to the request with the necessary vigor, leaned over the back of Athos to give him a slow, soft kiss, between the shoulder blades.

“More ...” The word was accompanied by a rise of the hips, whilst Athos stretched out his arms to escape his lips.

“More...?” Porthos continued stroking him with his fingertips, “More what? More speed? More kisses? More caresses?”

“I don’t care, _more_!”

Porthos smiled and let his tongue play with the earlobe of Athos who writhed while doing this astonishing thing with his ass; there was no need to make any sudden movements, Athos seemed to be able to take his pleasure on his own initiative, and it was marvelous. Like everything for Athos, the pleasure of being screwed came to him very easy and almost regally; Porthos would faint if there was a mirror available, but, in the absence of it, he should let his hands wander by the powerful chest and the strong thighs his friend.

“Can’t believe it,” Athos mumbled when Porthos tried to burn the candle at both ends and he realized that his flesh was harder than ever was. In these cases, that part of his body rested.

“I don’t know,” stammered Porthos, too busy pampering his neck, “it can be a dream.”

Athos, who was not so sure that his friend was talking about the same thing, shuddered when Porthos’ mustache stroked the tenderest part of his neck. “Maybe.”

Porthos, his hands still on Athos’ avid body, accelerated the pace of his thrusts slightly; after some erratic back and forth, the two eventually find a nice cadence. Athos was swept away by the sensations of the moment, eyes closed and breathing lightly; this would not be the time when moral issues would come to disturb his pleasure, not now when he was about to reach the top of the wave.

Athos arched suddenly, with a growl strangled in his throat, and he stood there shivering and sweating for a few shagged breathes. Porthos, bewildered, shook him against his chest, helping him to kneel on the bed. The episode was brief, but Porthos held him until Athos laid his head against Porthos’ shoulder by his own will and his breathing becomes deeper.

“Huh?” Porthos could not say more and Athos looked at him with cloudy eyes.

“Sorry,” he muttered, trying to regain his senses, pleasure’s power was still strong “I came ...”

“Ah…” Porthos have not managed to understand; he was still surprised as he did not expect this reaction. “Oh! Yes?”

“Too early, I know,” muttered Athos, his displeasure was obvious “but continue, Porthos.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure,” Athos remained his weight against the weight of Porthos. “It’s part of the agreement ...”

There was no possibility that Porthos made him faint. Athos knew he could endure it, he just needed to soldier on that hard ramming; it was not the first time he go to a lot of trouble in order to please his companions in bed and he knew that the discomfort of being filled — not to mention the pain-pleasure he felt every time Porthos’ cock grazed his guts— would be transformed into euphoria as soon as his interest turn into eagerness again.

“If you insist ...” Porthos muttered and wrapped his arms around the slender waist, lowering his head, at the same time, to nibble Athos’ extended neck.

Porthos smiled when Athos grunted his pleasure, it was so satisfying to have a partner without qualms about his uninhibited satisfaction; most of his bed fellows would be asking if it would be over soon.

“Porthos,” Athos called moments later.

“Yes?”

“A little oil...” Athos, almost embarrassed, whispered. “I need more.”

A grunt of agreement was the signal, Athos sighed as Porthos drew his heavy cock from his ass, almost reluctantly. Porthos didn’t want to wait, his hand retrieved the bottle and poured a lot of oil on its dick, it was impossible to make it more slippery.

“Athos?”

“Huh?”

“Ride me,” Porthos proposed sitting on his ankles.

Athos looked over his shoulder, as if assessing the situation, it took him a few moments to understand, but he stood on the bed and soon he had his legs astride over Porthos’ bulk. Porthos’ hands guided him towards the axis, while it took the opportunity to fondle his cute ass as soon as Athos surrounded his cock. Athos had his eyes closed but, if the position means some effort, his face showed it not.

“I will commit myself fully,” Porthos warned, placing a hand on the mattress while the weight of Athos shifts towards the bed. “Are you ready?”

“Challenge accepted,” Athos proclaimed with his legs around the back of Porthos with firm pressure.

Porthos and Athos pushed hard with a strategy worthy of someone who knew the mechanics, bent hip to compensate for the momentum. They exchanged a glance and continued with the battle between the opposing forces. Each movement Athos pleasantly affected in the body of his friend, the pressure on their bellies became delirious torture, which loudly claimed to be released. Athos put his hand on the bed to better contain the weight, Porthos sought his lips and, thusly jointed, Athos was agreeable surprised by another release, liquid this time. The big Picard was not surprised this time Athos shuddered in his arms and his teeth treated a bite to his shoulder, nothing serious, quite involuntary which only added to their shared pleasure. With the pride of accomplishment, Porthos let his head be emptied of all thought and his knees lost force, his weight dragged them both in the warm embrace of the mattress, while pouring his pleasure inside Athos in slow waves.

“Well done!” Athos murmured softly as Porthos withdrew his withering cock. He was still dazzled; it was a very rare thing to receive a second helping. “Good...”

Porthos raised his weight off Athos’ chest and threw a quick glance, Athos was still panting, his hair sticking to his forehead, but with a satisfied air, and Porthos considered that a disheveled Athos was beautiful view.

“Just to be sure,” Athos murmured loitering on rumpled sheets and displaying shamelessly his thew, “You’re not a novice, are you?”

“You have bats in the belfry, my friend...” Porthos replied with a smile, feeling strangely calm and euphoric at the same time.

“Admit it,” Athos insisted with a small smirk.

“We all have been young...”

“That’s enough for me,” Athos sprang out of bed with a surprising naturalness. In two steps, he stood by the window and opened it wide, letting in the cold night.

Porthos smiled as Athos continued his nightly ritual. Athos was full of good grace, even while performing banal and vulgar activities such as throwing a shirt over his head to keep out the cold or lifting said shirt to relieve his loins; while Porthos piled pillows against the headboard, he thought one needed to be a great gentleman to have this charm to wet the street from the window.

“Thanks,” Porthos murmured when Athos approached the bed after having closed the windows.

“I think it’s me who should say ‘thank you’,” Athos replied with a soft smile, taking the hair away from his eyes.

“That’s what mutual, then!”

“Without doubt,” Athos, with outstretched hand to turn off the lamp, looked at Porthos, who smiled and patted the bed like to invite him to cuddle. “Please, say no more about it.”

Athos ignored the proposal and, once the light was extinguished, he asserts his rights of ownership and pulled a pillow from the stack that Porthos had piled against the headboard.

“Good night,” Athos wished his guest, reserving a place at the edge of the bed to sleep, while he laid his head on the recouped pillow.

“It’s freezing!” Porthos growled and he put his hand on the shoulder of Athos, “Get closer, dammit!”

“There is another blanket at the foot of the bed...” Athos muttered; if he were not in his bed, he was sure he would be nodding off. It was a gift that sleep visited him so soon, and he wants to make the best of that circumstance.

“Come here,” Porthos insisted, dragging him to his side, “as if it were the first time you sleep surrounded by my arms...”

Athos felt himself embraced from behind, but if Porthos said something else he did not heard it. When Porthos managed to snuggle against Athos, he found his friend soundly asleep and it was not a bad thing, at least Athos was very warm.

Soon, Porthos was snoring against the head of Athos with a noise to wake the dead.


	3. The impact

“Porthos, wake up or we’ll be late for roll call.”

Porthos lingered in the warm sheets like a child who refuses to get up. Athos smiled before pulling the covers from that naked body, he wanted to find out if the cold would make his friend react to more than the three calls he had made already. To be sure, he opened the bedroom windows wide, letting in the noise of a city that reluctantly began the day after a cold night.

“Where’s the love?!” Porthos protested grunting, groping for the bed covers. As the search was fruitless, he sat up and glared at his friend. “Last night, you were the hottest person in Paris and now you pretend to kill me with cold!”

“I highly doubt your wenches treat you better,” Athos replied, adjusting his breeches over his bare legs. Deliberately, he disregarded the word ‘love’. “Make haste. We’ll be late.”

“Just like that?” More out of necessity than desire, Porthos threw his wool shirt over his head.

“What do you want from me? A sonnet? Love oaths?” Athos quited the questioning to cover himself with a coarse linen shirt. “I don’t recall promising none of that...”

Porthos’ head cleared as if Athos had poured a bucket of water from the Seine over it. True, promises had been made and both had agreed to abide by them. Athos was busy closing the lacing of his trousers and the view of that rear covered with brown wool reminded him of why he had agreed to them.

“So, nothing has changed?” Porthos inquired while fetching his own trousers.

“Because you poked my fire last night?”

“It wasn’t your fire what I poke last night...”

“You know what I mean,” Athos said, passing the brush through his disheveled black mane. “You’re not more my friend today than you were yesterday, and I’m no less than I was yesterday just because you gave me a fair night...”

“A fair night!” Porthos’ tone left no doubt that he expected more praise.

“Yes, I got relief and slept like a baby,” Athos threw the brush next to his friend. “It’s more than I can say about other nights. I hope you can say at least as much.”

Porthos could say much more than that, but he suspected Athos would not receive well the rude words that came to his mind about the previous night. His friend’s performance in the sack was formidable, and he suspected it would take a while before he gets something just as good in the near future. But truth be told, Athos was still Athos, he remained his friend, his comrade in arms, and the person he could trust in a tavern brawl. And Porthos had to be fair: he did not feel more inclined than Athos to recite poetry.

“It was quite satisfactory, yes...” Porthos admitted and took the brush. The whole affair might be summed up in the fact that none of them had his heart connected with his dick. “Do you have any objection to repeat it?”

“If the opportunity arises...” Athos tried to answer as he done a knitted vest. It was fun to see how he did it while trying to shrug. “I also don’t mind being the poker.”

Porthos’ jaw almost hit the ground, he had forgotten that possibility. A soft knock on the door took out his mind from Athos’ thick shaft; Grimaud was welcomed into the room as well as the announcement, translated by his master, about breakfast being ready. Both ate a simple breakfast of cheese and bread, washed down with some of the wine of the night before, and prepared to leave.

“Stay home,” Athos ordered to Grimaud once had his doublet and uniform on.

The silent one just nodded while tending Porthos’ boot cuffs. The Picard thought that was a good trick to teach to Mousqueton, and wondered how it was that never occurred to him his valet could serve to ensure his boots were properly folded.

Athos had already set his thin, brown kid gloves and beckoned him to hurry up as he walked through the front door. Porthos took his cowhide gloves from Grimaud, but he was not fast enough to prevent the servant from depositing a kiss on the back of his big hand. For a moment, Porthos looked at the plucky Breton who was already shrinking as if expecting a blow, that attitude might have been what prevented Porthos from hitting him. Athos’ voice, irritated and impatient, called him out from the bottom of the stairs.

“I’m coming!” he shouted to his friend and crossed the threshold. “ _Sang dieu!_ , is not the first time we are late for somewhere!”

“We must not be late for roll call again,” Athos said, keeping the gate open. “What happened?”

“What makes you believe that something happened?” Porthos asked pausing under the lintel.

“You are flustered...”

“I’d be flustered too, _monsieur_ , if I were sharing the doorway with you!”

The singing voice of the landlady made them both stiffen in place; both looked into the house and saw this young woman, almost bare-chested, with a basket on her arm, ready to go to market. Both reacted the same way and were too close not to notice each other arousal. Trying to hide — both the blush and the erection — Porthos hit the streets and bowed when the landlady went out behind him. Athos delayed himself closing the door.

“Nice ass,” Porthos said when the landlady went to the market, once she was sure that Athos would not do her any honors.

“All yours,” replied Athos, adjusting his hat.

“I didn’t speak of the lady.”

“Cut the nonsense!”

Porthos laughed for a while as he followed his friend through the streets to the headquarters of the Musketeers. Walking on the streets of Paris between the vendors and the riff-raff was an adventure in itself, fortunately, the uniform of the army always granted some privileges; Athos walked through the center of the street, as if he owned it and commoners made way without his having to request it. Porthos suspected that many of them had already felt his fist in the ribs for going against his friend. Treville’s house was in sight when Athos returned to the pending issue; sure that nobody in that crowd would put too much attention to the conversation between them.

“So, what was it?”

“Grimaud kissed me”

“What?”

“He kissed my hand” Porthos clarified at seeing his friend’s horrified face.

“He must be grateful...”

“And why is that?” Asked Porthos, but a quick glance like lightning from Athos said it all. “Oooh!”

“He must have noticed that I slept very well,” continued Athos, following his habit of denying everything, “And he must have attributed it to its just cause.”

“You should throw a bone to the poor mute... “

“Eh?”

“You see... he loves you.”

“I _know_ he loves me,” he replied Athos, with confused face, “but he is my valet.”

“If it’s good for the king, it’s good for you!” Porthos replied, patting the shoulder of his friend with his usual force.

 


End file.
